


The Kitchen

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Kane (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Food, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-25
Updated: 2007-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve makes magic happen with Chris in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Steve Carlson, let it be known, is a chef. He doesn’t refer to himself that way, of course. But the degree in Culinary Arts counts for something in anyone’s book. And he has this thing about meeting people and, if he likes them, inviting them to a home-cooked meal at his house. Now, such a habit has regrettably confused many over the years. Members of each gender, some in-between, even couples if you count that group party he’d organized when he was 25 and got caught up in what turned out to be a ‘swingers’ audition. But that’s the way he is. Steve, when he gets a ‘good vibe’ will befriend strangers in an intimate fashion that boggles the mind. Can’t lie though. This is exactly why Chris loves him so damn much. Not that frou-frou, champagne and roses kind of romantic love that makes Chris want to get down on one knee. They’re friends, brothers in ways that aren’t genetic. Others who know them hint around that maybe Steve feels more for him than he’s let on but…

He likes watching him dance around his kitchen. All the latest appliances, great (read: expensive) utensils, pots and pans and skillets in his possession that Chris is a might bit jealous of. Yeah, Steve is a chef whether he calls himself that or not. And somehow when Chris leans against the counter and watches him move so gracefully, flipping steaks in a skillet and tossing salad with tongs and eyeballing the right amount of olive oil and Balsamic vinaigrette to add to his roasted potato wedge/vegetable concoction, somehow tonight he feels this strange _twist_ in his gut. Like his heart has suddenly dropped into his stomach. He hopes it’s from the wonderful aroma permeating the place.

Chris’s stomach rumbles loudly. “God, dude, you finished yet ‘cause I’m starving!” He chalks up the twist to hunger pains. Really, nothing else it could be, right?

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot….” He chuckles, then sticks his nose into each container and takes a good whiff. “Yup…Done.” He grins at Chris. Chris leans toward the stove. Steve puts a hand out. “Uh uh. You can have a taste but you can’t eat until the table’s set.” He cranes his neck to look in the dining room, then back at Chris. “Coulda sworn that was your job, Kane.”

It was. Until he got mesmerized by Steve in his kitchen. He catches himself before he stomps his foot. Why does it have to smell so damn…? “Okay, okay. Just one bite. Promise.”

“Come ‘ere then.”

See, up until then he thought Steve would scoop something into the bowl of a serving spoon of some sort and hand it to him. But Steve doesn’t think about it, just holds out a bamboo serving fork with a speared piece of steak in his direction. Chris stares at him a second, stunned. Never before in their friendship has Steve actually tried to feed him. He just gazes calmly back at Chris, waiting for a reaction. Chris blinks, leans forward again and takes the steak gingerly into his mouth, taking special care not to impale either of his lips on the fork. They look into each other’s eyes as it happens, both barely breathing, still as statues. Chris’s eyes finally close when a rich, smoky sweet flavor bursts into his mouth while he chews. He moans, in the grip of a food orgasm. A minute later, when the steak is swallowed he opens his eyes to see Steve staring intensely at him.

“Was it good for you?” Steve asks teasingly, his voice a little hoarse.

“…..Yeah…” Only it comes out more as a question. One of Steve’s eyebrows rises.

It dawns on Chris why he can’t seem to hear anything at the moment but his own heartbeat. The way Steve is watching him, the slight curve of his lips, the fact that he hasn’t yet backed up from him. When his stare snags onto Chris’s lips it becomes obvious. Suddenly his lips are drier than a desert. He licks them subconsciously, his breath hitching when Steve tracks the movement.

He has no intention of kissing Steve. None. But it happens. And he can’t stop it. He can’t pull back or let go of Steve’s shoulder or makes himself not sink into him. What he can do, the _only_ thing he can do, is exactly what he does. He holds on for dear life and hopes Steve will be able to make breakfast tomorrow morning taste as good as dinner tonight...


	2. Two

After that first kiss things go dowhill. Things as in the blood in Chris’s veins. It all heads south below his belly. He doesn’t care though. Steve has him against the counter, kissing him again and again, causing his brain to short-circuit. He finds himself stuttering out a word or two that confuses them both. Steve, thankfully, ignores him. Instead he runs trembling fingers down the side of his neck. When Chris arches into the caress he smiles and licks the trail his fingers blazed. He smiles even bigger when a high-pitched moan escapes. Suddenly the smell in the kitchen turns into burnt beef.

“Shit!...Wait, Chris…” Chris refused to let go of Steve’s waist. “Gotta-.” Lips wrap themselves around his, a heat-seeking tongue thrusting into his mouth before he can finish his sentence. He doesn’t mind but he does stretch and shut off the burners on the stove.Chris makes a mental note to never make out with Steve while he’s cooking, then continues kissing.

“Bed.” He breaks away. Steve has this hunger in his eyes, this fierceness, that tilts Chris’s world too much to the left. He recognizes it as desire and wonders why he couldn’t see it before. “Now…need…bed…..Steve……” he pants, no longer able to form complete sentences himself.

“Jesus…” Steve growls and grounds into Chris, his pelvis moving against him for friction, for gratification, need and desperation making him clumsy as he shakes and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. “Fuck! I can’t get it!” he whispers angrily.

Chris smiles softly, amazed at how slightly bruised his lips are, at how pink his neck has become from his ministrations. He stands for a second, watching, waiting, damn near coming from the vision before him. Who knew Steve was so hot?! Well, others have known, but _he_ never paid much attention before. Or else he knew and pretended otherwise, which, he acknowledges, is probably more of the truth. Steve sighs, leans his forehead against Chris’s, who leans gratefull against the counter, and gives up on the shirt for a second. Chris smiles indulgently, until fists curl into the cotton and rip it off him. His jaw drops as he looks up into his eyes. Steve’s own eyes glitter triumphantly before he swoops in and latches onto an already hardened nipple. Chris, busy letting out an unmanly gasp, misses the smirk Steve gives. Smirk gone, Steve allows his fingers to skim his chest, sliding over smooth, hairless flesh. Chris is still in need of a bed, preferably Steve’s, but Steve has other plans. He bodily lifts Chris up onto the counter and spreads his legs.

Steve sighs in satisfaction when his thighs press into his sides. At first Chris wants to protest, feeling a little girly and submissive. Then Steve unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans. Chris’s dick, the hard, lean length of it, is impressive. So much so that Steve immediately flicks his tongue out to taste it. Soon enough it disappears down his throat. Chris sees this and bucks uncontrollably. It’s all happening so fast, too fast. Chris puts a warning hand on his head to push him off, to slow things down, but Steve starts to sing or hum or something and in a flash he comes. He expects him to back off finally, to gag, to be repelled, but Steve hangs on, draining every drop. When he looks up into Chris’s eyes he’s smiling gently, sexily, his lips glistening and swollen.

“Steve, I-,” Chris begins haltingly.

“Shh, ‘s okay…I like the way you taste.” The blush that blooms across his skin is enough to make him hide his embarassed face in the crook of his arm. “Oh, Chris,” Steve chuckles. “Dinner’s ruined.” He leans against him. His engored dick is aching to be released from his sweatpants.

“Yeah,” Chris sighs blissfully, not aware yet of how they’re going to go forward from here or of what exactly it will mean to their friendship.

“I’ll open the windows later and light a couple candles to get the smell out.”

“Yeah,” he sighs again.

“You’ll have to make it up to me, you know.” Chris’s mouth opens, then closes without a sound passing through. “Make me work up an appetite for breakfast tomorrow.” Another speechless moment passes. “Damnit, Kane, that means you’re supposed to return the favor.”

“…” Chris swallows the lump that blocks his throat, then tries again. “……….”

For some reason the thought of giving Steve a blow job is not too appealing, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. It just seems so,well, _gay_. And Chris just isn’t like that. Although, with Steve all breathy and hungry and hard…Really, really hard when he sends a scouting hand. A tent in the front of his jeans. Hard and big. Really, really big. Okay, not giant-sized but more than he wants to imagine inside-. He stops that thought before it goes any further. Before it takes him to a place in his mind that is better off not being explored. Before he starts to wonder if Steve’s dick could actually fit inside him without tearing his ass apart…..And why the hell can’t he make himself stop picturing-? He hops off the counter and drops to his knees, yanking Steve’s jeans down hurriedly. Steve, closet nudist that he is, has no underwear on, making it easier for Chris to stuff the head between his lips. Then more, and more still, until all of Steve is inside his mouth, and he is taking him like he means business. Like he’s enjoying the taste and feel of him…When Steve comes Chris swallows automatically, scared every drop brings him closer to wanting more…

“Kane?” Steve checks in.

“Mm?” He doesn’t look him in the eye, just stares uncomprehendingly at his softening dick.

“You okay?”

“No, you fucker,” he explodes. And drags him off to his bedroom.


	3. Three

The next morning Steve wakes up early and washes the dishes from the night before. He's sore and there are too many hickeys on his body to count. But he's smiling as if the sun set right there in his kitchen. Chris is dreaming of their escapades. Of blowing him, of Steve's hands on his dick, of how tight and hot and good he felt as he rode him, of how easy it was to let him, of how much he wants him right now…Steve doesn't know that Chris is shifting to be closer to him in his sleep, that he wakes up when all he feels are chilly sheets on his side of the bed. He doesn't know that Chris is quietly, vehemently cursing him as he lies in his bed for making him want him so goddamn much. No, what Steve knows is that the Belgian waffles with strawberry topping, because Chris loves strawberries, are almost done, as well as the sausage patties with his own special seasonings that hint of brown sugar and maple syrup. Steve knows that the eggs he just whipped up for the omelets are in the skillet and ready to be flipped. Steve smells the ham and cheese chunks, the green pepper, the tomatoes, the garlic powder and pinch of salt and paprika that only add to the flavor.

"Dude, that smells go good…" Chris says softly from behind Steve.

"Yup," he remarks. Although he may be modest he never lies about his cooking skills.

"Done yet?" Chris is hungrier than a growing teenage boy. This time he wants food. Well, food and a kiss or two or twenty. But mostly food.

"Sit tight."

So he does. Chris sits at the island and waits patiently. In one night he has learned to stay put until Steve is done with him. Or cooking. Or both. Five minutes later he's shoving the first bite of waffle into his mouth. And drowning in culinary satisfaction. He sighs happily as he munches. Steve sits beside him and eats as well. They grin at each other around their full mouths, trying not to let anything fall out of imaginary holes in their lips. Chris would tell Steve just how palatable the meal is but he's too busy enjoying it. And really, Steve doesn't need the praise. Not much anyway.

"Steve," Chris starts, swallowing, "this is…You are…..Damn! And I'm not just saying that."

Which is good. Chris can bullshit with the best of them. Especially when he's on a roll. And drunk. And bored. Chris will talk and talk and talk until Steve wants to strangle him. But most of the time Chris won't talk about anything worth something. Usually Steve has to rip it out of him. Turn the lies and tall tales into some kind of truth. This morning, though, and maybe last night was the catalyst, Chris seems to mean the way he's looking at his best friend, the closeness of this thigh to Steve's. This morning Steve thinks maybe it wasn't just 'getting off', that maybe Chris still wants him in the light of day. It scares him to finally get what he's always wanted. And he's sure that, given time and space, Chris will freak out. For now he's content to just be with him…

And an hour later, when they're sitting on the living room couch under the leopard print throw that Steve refuses to trash though Chris has begged him to more than once, watching some football game between whoever, Chris thinks about what they did and what it all means, about the consequences, and it happens. Chris suddenly stiffens. He isn't in Steve's arms, but Steve feels the wall come down anyway. Chris won't look at him. They're right next to each other, a mere inch apart, so it's hard not to pretend that everything is fine. Steve sneaks a hesitant glance, afraid to look directly into his eyes, afraid of what he'll see.

"I, uh…Should go….." Chris bolts for the bedroom to dress.

A minute later in normal time, but a year later in Chris time, he comes back out sloppily shoved into jeans and a t-shirt, tightly holding his belt in his hands.

"Kane? Why are you running away?" Steve asks gently.

"I'm not. Just need to get home, that's all." But his head is turned away and he's murmuring so that Steve has to strain to hear him. He unfortunately remembers he has no pet or other reason for rushing when he hears Steve call his name.

"Kane…"

"Look, I just…This can't be real, Steve. You know that."

"I do?" That's it in a nutshell. Chris lives in a world where they shouldn't be together and that's all the reason he needs to walk away. Steve is better able to make his and Chris's worlds co-exist. "Why should I know that?" It's a valid question. He really wants to know the answer.

"Steve, we're not-. I'm not gay and neither are you. We just-. Damnit, Steve, why do you have to be so-?"

This is why they are so perfect for each other, Steve thinks. Because he actually understands Chris-speak. Chris, on the other hand, is so confused his head has begun to throb. He wonders when they crossed the line. If it was when Steve blew him, or when they kissed, or if that line was crossed long ago and he never saw it coming. If the line might possibly have never existed in the first place. He wants Steve. He knows this. But he doesn't want what comes along with it. Relationship rules. Gay man rules, of which he's sure there must be. And what would that make them? A couple? Lovers? Boyfriends? He shudders at the thought. Chris simply doesn't do relationships. He's not very talented at keeping them. At ending them. He tries not to have them at all. And Steve, incurable romantic that he is, deserves nothing less. Will ask for nothing less. From him. And he can't deliver. Not that he could before. Why would he be any better at it now? No, he can't do that. Not to Steve. He runs out before Steve has a chance to protest…


	4. Four

Six months pass. Six agonizing months. Steve is beside himself with fear, anxiety, disgust. He wants to kill Chris for doing this. For not even giving them a chance to find out what they could be together. They might just be amazing, Steve thinks. But what can he do? Chris is not the kind of man to be talked into anything. No. All Steve can do is wait. And hope. Thankfully Steve is great at both. But he wonders how long Chris will hide, will make him suffer. Steve cooks up a storm as the days pass. He has friends over, family, strangers like the deli guy and the baker he meets at the grocery store. His favorite employee (only because she has the most interesting tongue piercing jewelry) at the café down the street. He eats and plays guitar and sings. And. Just. Waits. Steve, let it be known, is miserable. Because he has fallen in love with his best friend. When it happened or why is a mystery. Doesn’t matter really. What does is that when Steve loves, he loves hard and long. He loves until he can’t love anymore. And then he loves some more. Chris, for all his faults, is one of those people Steve loves. If only Chris would accept it.

It’s winter in L.A., and, yeah, there’s no snow, but Steve goes out and buys all the Christmas decorations anyway. He buys a tree, hangs the ornaments, strings some popcorn, scatters tinsel. He cooks brown sugar coated ham, pineapple glazed chicken breasts, homemade cranberry sauce, cornbread stuffing, butternut squash, roasted vegetables, creamy mashed poatoes. For dessert he bakes a cherry cheekcake, a pumpkin pie, two apple pies to be served with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and all kinds of cookies. He expects a full house so he, to be safe, throws in some spinach souffle and a small vegetable lasagna, along with individual dishes of  mixed-berry topped crème brulee. He wonders if Chris will show, but when people ask, tell them he’s not a sure thing. Instead he cooks, and cleans, and pretends he’s not anxious in the least on the day of the party. The annual Christmas Eve party, as his usually are, is a success. Chris makes no grand appearance, but everyone else enjoys themselves.

On Christmas morning Steve is shaken violently from sleep by a loud banging. At first he can’t recognize it, thinks maybe it’s part of a dream until he hears it again. It’s coming from the kitchen. His gourmet, custom designed kitchen. He jumps out of bed and rushes through the house to his favorite domain. To say he’s surprised by what, or, rather, who he sees, is the understatement of the year. Chris, for some reason, is inexplicably covered from head to toe in what looks like flour. He straightens up from the stove and turns when he hears Steve’s gasp.

“Chris? What the fuck are you doing in my house?” He yells, adrenalin still coursing through his veins.

“Baking cookies,” he responds calmly. He’s wearing Steve’s apron, the same ‘Kiss The Cook’ apron he bought when Steve got a chef’s degree.

“Chris, it’s still dark out!” Steve looks at the clock on the wall. He’s dismayed to find out it’s 5am.

“I know.”

“Chris, it’s been 6 months since you’ve talked to me!” Steve keeps waiting for his brain to turn on so he can think of more intelligent things to say.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here.”

“Chris!” Exasperated, he looks at his oven. “You can’t even cook!” That right there is the heart of the argument. At least for Steve. He will not have his prize kitchen ruined by some nitwit who can’t boil an egg without burning the pot, whether he loves the nitwit or not.

They stare at each other for a long minute silently battling for top dog. Chris, who is alarmingly awake at the moment, has the advantage, but Steve has his own honesty on his side. That and the fact that his emotions always swim so easily in his eyes. Chris wants to look away, to run away, but he can’t. He’s been near suicidal without the man for far too long. And he came to Steve willingly. Without any more hesitation. Despite his fear. He sighs in resignation and takes a tentative step forward.

“Steve…”

Nothing else. Just his name. A plea for mercy. And in that moment Steve bends. He never breaks. Not even for Chris, but he bends. He stops breathing, stops seeing, stops feeling for a solitary second in time. And then, when Chris comes closer, close enough to run a trembling finger across his lips, it all starts up again. Steve lets out a soft, involuntary cry before he engulfs Chris. Chris tries to apologize, though it isn’t necessary. The way he said his name, the need riding beneath the wave of it, was all the apology Steve needed.

Steve drags Chris off to his bedroom and kisses him like a drowning man who’s finally found water. Chris can barely catch his own breath during the onslaught but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask for gentleness. The man-handling he receives from Steve’s hands is well-deserved. He knows this. And he wants it. He accepts every rough kiss, every pinch and bite with equal fever. In the end, when Steve pushes inside an unprepared Chris, he welcomes the burn, holding on for as long as he can. When he comes it’s with Steve’s name on his lips and Steve’s dick up his ass. And this, he’s sure, is only the beginning.

As fate would have it, they both forget about the cookies Chris put in the oven, which burn, leaving a stench in the air. The last thing Steve thinks as he comes is to remind himself to wash dishes in the morning and get that burnt smell out of his house. When he falls asleep in Chris’s arms he vows to once again try to teach Chris how to cook, or to banish him permanently from his kitchen…


End file.
